


To Carry Within Us an Orchard

by lostlenore



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Future Fic, M/M, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-08 01:06:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5477411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostlenore/pseuds/lostlenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack likes weddings better in theory than in practice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Carry Within Us an Orchard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [milou407](https://archiveofourown.org/users/milou407/gifts).



> Happy New Year to milou407! I'm so sorry this is late. This fic is (loosely) based on the S1E13 episode of How I Met Your Mother.

 

Jack likes weddings better in theory than in practice. 

His mother’s pictures of her wedding were fairytale perfect, resting in the old gilt album she pulled out every now and again to sigh over. The photos were smooth and sepia-toned around the edges, with no hint of the wild stories Jack had heard from his dad involving Jagr, an ice sculpture, and two of the bridesmaids. The pictures tell a story of dancing with adoring smiles, and feeding each other bits of cake, interspersed with Mario Lemieux caught crying into a handkerchief during the vows. They’re perfect, frozen in time and unmoving.

The weddings Jack's been forced to attend in real life are always swarming with press, and relatives Jack doesn't know. Or, worse, relatives Jack does know but whose names he's forgotten, whose faces are vaguely familiar and whose names slide right out of his head the second he hears them. There are always people who want him to dance, or people who are loud and angry when drunk, and then there's the people who try and touch him without his permission. It's hell, and by the time he was old enough to drink the new anxiety medication he was on meant he couldn't drown his sorrows at the open bars.

So, weddings: not really Jack's thing.  

Jack doesn’t immediately register the soppy smile Shitty gets when the one cousin he actually likes sends him an invitation to the small reception she’s having in town. He’s a bit more preoccupied with his fractured wrist and the amount of PT he’ll have to do to make sure he’s game-ready by the time the Falcons have to make their playoff run.

That, and the logistics of left-handed chopsticks. Jack only really notices because Shitty taped the invitation writing-side out on the fridge next to his Falconer’s game schedule and Lardo’s stoned macaroni art, so he sees it every time he goes to get a protein shake out of the refrigerator. When he mentions it Jack’s surprised to hear a wistful fondness in Shitty’s voice. It’s a rare occurrence when it comes to talking about Shitty’s family.

“Hills deserves nice things,” he says, mouth full of celebratory egg foo young. “She’s a real beaut, you know? A real fuckin gem.” He points at Lardo, whose attention is divided between assembling perfect packets of mushu pork and the Due South marathon on tv. “I’m gonna cry like a baby during the vows,” Shitty warns.

“Is this the cousin who was the Gophers beer pong champion for like three years in a row? Because I liked her. You’d better be getting her something nicer than a blender.” Lardo stretches out her feet so Shitty can obligingly tuck them under his legs. Jack has a sudden, biting moment of envy that his two best friends have slid so easily into a relationship with each other. He’s usually too busy with hockey for it to bother him much, but on IR there’s not much to do but watch bad soap operas and confront his own loneliness.  

“A photo album,” Jack says, shaking the jealousy away. “You should get them a photo album.”

Lardo destroys a packet of mushu pork and chews thoughtfully. “I like it. Definitely better than a blender.” She watches Jack fight a losing battle against his lo mein. “Do you want a fork?”

  
“ _Please_.”

 

* * *

 

“Jack. Jacquelyn. _Jack Laurant Zimmerman_. Have I told you recently that you are a gentleman and a scholar?” Shitty isn’t quite drunk yet--he’s only on his third beer, and they did have dinner--but he’s well on his way. Jack had given him his blessing earlier to take full advantage of the open bar with the usual caveats of  a) no stripping, and b) no puking on Jack, any of Jack’s possessions, or the cab Jack would inevitably call to come pick them up.

“Yes, but I still like hearing it,” Jack steals another bite of his cake. The cake is logic-defyingly good. It looks like an ordinary red velvet cake but Jack can taste some sort of subtle spice, and the frosting is thick and creamy. Beside him Shitty takes a large bite and moans aloud in a way that has their neighboring table shooting them scandalized looks.

“I want to shake the hand of whatever genius is responsible for this masterpiece. Seriously, I love this cake. I want to marry this cake. I want to whisper sweet nothings to this cake and have it’s little cupcake babies.” Shitty pauses, looking conflicted. “How do you think Lardo feels about polyamory?”

Jack is startled into laughing. “Given that she’s sleeping on the floor of SeaTac in the middle of a blizzard, I’d say not positive.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah.” Jack hopes that she’s safe. The last they heard from her the Red Cross was there and handing out supplies to people. Between that and the prospect of facing his extended family alone, Shitty had been so uncharacteristically upset that Jack had grabbed his best game day suit and volunteered to accompany him in Lardo’s place.

Surprisingly it hadn’t been a painful experience at all. The venue was lovely, Hilary looked radiant in her gown, and the reading had even Jack reaching for tissues to dab at his eyes.with.

“You know what,” Jack says in a sudden fit of inspiration. “You should grab an extra piece of cake for Lardo. I bet she’d love it when she gets home.”

Shitty plants a sloppy, smacking kiss on Jack’s forehead. “That is a ‘swacesome idea if I ever heard one. I’ll be right back.” He turns around and narrowly misses upending a small child on the edge of the dance floor. "Gentleman and scholar!" He gives Jack a wink and a pair of finger guns. 

Jack ducks his head against a smile. 

“Are you one of Bartholomew’s college friends?” One of the elderly ladies at the neighboring table gives Jack an arch look, with a strange emphasis on the word ‘friends’ that Jack recognizes with a sickening lurch. He can feel his smile slide away, and hastily patches in his best media Bland Media Face.

“Sh-Bartholomew and I used to play hockey together,” Jack says as placidly as he can. Shitty understandably hates his given name, and only recently did he allow Jack to know what it was. Jack has never heard anyone but his grandparents use it with him, and it immediately sets him on edge. But he introduces himself, because it's the polite thing to do.

“I'm Jack Zimmerman, I play for the Providence Falconers.” The cast makes shaking hands even more awkward than usual, but it doesn't seem to deter her or any of her neighbors, who are clearly eavesdropping. 

“Really!” The woman next to her chimes in. “You know Jack, my husband used to love the Bruins-” 

"Zimmerman! You wouldn't happen to be related to Bob Zimmerman by any chance-" A third woman elbows her way in, smacking Jack in the ankles with her cane. 

“-Madelyn, this young man plays for Providence. Didn’t you say your granddaughter was getting her master’s degree out in that area?” Says another woman, and Jack has the sudden feeling that he’s made a grave tactical error. He cranes his neck, hoping desperately for a sign of Shitty, and spots him waylaid at the buffet table by his father and and his grandfather. They’re arguing heatedly, and as Jack watches they escort Shitty out of the reception and into one of the conference rooms in the back.

Jack checks back in to the conversation at hand, only to find to his horror the number of elderly ladies surrounding his table has nearly tripled. Several are already pulling photos of their granddaughters and nieces out of their purses to show him. He gulps nervously. “I don’t suppose I could interest any of you ladies in another glass of punch?”

Jack remembers reading somewhere that horses can smell fear. He thinks it's probably the same for grandmothers, because whatever they see in Jack's expression has them descending on the table en masse. Jack is legitimately terrified, but his ruthlessly polite Canadian upbringing means he can’t bear the thought of knocking them over and making a bid for freedom. He’s about to hide under the table when a voice Jack has never heard before says, “oh _there_ you are, I’ve been looking all over for you.”

The crowd of ladies part like the Red Sea to reveal a man a little younger than Jack, if Jack had to guess, with a warm, easy smile and a thick Southern drawl. He’s wearing a suit that’s a bit too short in the pants, and a jaunty striped bow tie that’s hanging crooked at an angle Jack’s fingers itch to fix. The man takes Jack lightly by the elbow, and guides him away from the crowd.

“I’m so sorry y’all but we really must be going,” the man apologizes to the room at large. "The photographer needs you out front for a photo right this minute." His big doe eyes are wide and guileless. Mollified, the hordes of grandmothers release Jack from their mothball-smelling clutches.  

“Thank you so much, it was just lovely to meet you,” say man says, all charm, and hustles Jack out of the room quick as a wink.  

It’s just that easy. Together the make a beeline for the hallway, where, once they’re out of sight, the man drops Jack’s hand and starts giggling.

Giggling.

“Lord almighty I thought they were going to eat you alive,” he covers his face with his hands but the nervous giggling continues. “I’m sorry, I know I should be laughing, you really did look scared so I thought I’d try to help.”

“You did,” Jack looks down at his shoes. “Help, I mean. Thank you.” He’d thought he’d been handling it well, but if perfect strangers could pick up on his anxiety like that then it’s possible he wasn’t handling it as well as he’d thought. 

 "Is there anything you need me to do? Or not do, I suppose." The man isn’t laughing anymore, he’s watching Jack with a small furrow between his eyebrows, like maybe Jack’s face is familiar from the Falconer’s ads around town but he can’t quite place it.

Jack, for his part, tries not not to let his surprise show on his face. It's rare that he hears someone asks him if there are things they _shouldn't_ do, when it comes to his anxiety. 

 "I’ll be fine. I just needed a bit of space," he says honestly. “You don’t have to keep me company, I don’t want you to miss the reception because of me." Jack doesn’t want him to leave, actually. He’s got a nice laugh and warm hands, and honestly he just seems kind. He seems like someone Jack wants to know.

"You're not keeping me from anything, I promise you," the man says. "Oh! I'm so sorry where are my manners, I'm Eric." He holds out his hand for Jack to shake, the tips of his ears red with embarrassment. Jack goes to shake and only remembers his cast at the last moment. "Sorry, sorry," he waves awkwardly and Eric laughs. "I'm Jack." He holds out his left hand instead and watches the way his hand envelops Eric's with a fluttery feeling in his chest.  

"Is that a butterfly wearing sunglasses?" Eric's fingers skim lightly across the fiberglass and plaster, like he's afraid to touch.  

Jack groans, "My teammates are the worst. It was originally a giant dick wearing sunglasses, but I can't go in front of the media with dicks drawn on me, so."

"So you improvised?" Eric's grin is back, more mischievous than before, and something in Jack thrills to see it. "I like it. Should I inspect the back for more dicks? We could make it a whole flock of butterflies."

Jack doesn't think butterflies travel in a flock but he keeps his mouth shut and basks in the glow of Eric's attention. For all that he was eager to draw on Jack's cast he's kind of a terrible artist. Jack feels comfortable enough to gently chirp him about his lack of ability, and is pleasantly surprised to find Eric gives as good as he gets. 

 "Cute cat," he teases, and Eric will say something like, "Hush now you know that's a blimp," or "It's underwater, Jack, it's obviously a whale." 

There's still a little blank space on the inside of the cast, where none of the guys had wanted to sign for fear of tweaking Jack's wrist even worse. Eric sketches out something that looks like a cloud with stick feet and a bad case of chicken pox. 

"Are you going to tell me what that is or do I have to guess," Jack bumps his shoulder against Eric's. Eric gently bumps him back. 

"Well for that I think I'll make you guess." 

"A sheep on stilts?" Jack cocks his head, trying to see the drawing in its entirety. "A headless giraffe." 

Eric pinches his side, and though he huffs and pouts he can't seem to keep a straight face. "It's a peach tree,' he half-laughs, half-accuses. It's the only thing I can draw."  

Things stretch on in that vein for a while, with Eric defaming Boston's public transit system, and admitting to Jack his colorful history as a former figure skater. He gets, if at all possible, even more animated, talking about jumps and spins and gaudy costumes.

"You seem like you miss it," Jack blurts out before he can stop himself. The unspoken ' _so why did you quit?_ ' hangs heavy in the air between them.

Eric's smile goes a little distant, a little sad. "Yeah. I miss it a lot." He leans in like he's sharing a secret. "Sometimes when I go down to Kendall Square, I still do the jumps."  He makes a fluttering gesture with his hands, like a bird in flight.

"Like this?" Jack offers up his hands and leans in so that their foreheads brush. Eric looks up at him through his eyelashes.

"Not quite." He rubs his thumb over the knob of Jack's wrist. "Let me show you."   

 

* * *

 

Eric doesn’t kiss the way Jack thought he would. He opens so sweetly for Jack, his fingers gently tugging Jack’s hair to move him where he wants him. Jack lets him take control of the kiss, melting into Eric’s arms so that their breaths turn slick and gasping. Eric’s not at all shy or hesitant about hopping up to sit on the coat check table so that they’re of a height, or about the way anyone who bothered to peek out into the hallway would spot them. The noises Jack makes when Eric gets his legs around Jack’s waist are terrible and embarrassing, even if they leave Eric smiling into the curve of his neck.

“Jack,” Shitty’s voice echoes overloud in the hallway. “Jack, Jesus H. Christ I am so sorry bro, I can’t believe they kept me in their almost two hours, I owe you like one million protein shakes.”

Jack breaks this kiss, his head a bit dazed and fluttery. Eric’s staring at him wide-eyed, his lips a shiny, bitten red and his bow tie hanging crooked again.

“Jack?”

Eric brushes Jack’s hair back into something approaching respectable and motions for him to say something.

“I-yeah, I’m here, sorry.”

“Thank fuck, I already dropped off Hils gift let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

“Hang on, let me get my coat,” Jack says, with an apologetic glance to Eric. Eric gives him a small smile.

When Jack re-emerges from the forest of coats with his and Shitty’s jackets, Eric is gone.

 

* * *

 

“You’re moping” Shitty says, from where he’s lying naked on the sofa. He’s ostensibly drafting a motion but Jack can hear the tinny sound of minesweeper though the headphones.

“I’m not moping, I’m resting. It’s what you’re supposed to do on IR.” And he is, for a given value of resting. He has a trainer-approved smoothie in his good hand, a squeeze ball in the other, and Band of Brothers muted on the tv. By IR standards this is about as good as it’s going to get.

“Jack,” Shitty starts, in the voice that means he’s going to apologize again.

“Don’t, please. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“Still. I would have waited if I’d known,” Shitty ploughs ahead. “You’d at least have his last name. Or his phone number. Or a relative geographic location for skywriting.”

Jack shrugs. “Some thing just aren’t meant to be, I guess.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it. I can ask around, see if anyone had him on the guest list-”

Jack cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “I’m not going to disturb Hilary on her honeymoon. Besides, I asked him if he was here with the bride or the groom, and he said neither.”

“Neither? Jack I can’t believe your Prince Charming is a wedding crasher,” Lardo stumbles into the living room looking like she just spent two days sleeping on the floor of an airport. “I leave for one weekend and your life turns into a telenovela.”

“You’re up! I thought you’d sleep another hour at least.” Jack catches sight of the expression on Shitty’s face and turns away. It seems too private for Jack to intrude on. He focuses on the tv again, the familiar pattern of Easy Company and Ron Livingston’s attractively disheveled face.  

“What can I say, I exceed expectation.” He hears Lardo yawn, and tumble into the kitchen in search of food.

“Oh hey I saved you some of the cake,” Shitty calls over his shoulder. “I thought after being trapped in an airport you deserved it. Wedding cake is usually some nasty drywall-tasting shit, but there was serious magic voodoo in this one because it was crazy good. Back me up on this Jack.” He nudges Jack with his toe.

“The cake was amazing Lardo,” Jack says honestly.    

Lardo makes a disbelieving noise that turns into a pleased sort of humming sound.

“Bro, it’s cake from Peachtree Bakery, I recognize the logo. No wonder it’s good their shit is the best.”

“Peachtree Bakery hunh? Never heard of it. Maybe I’ll send them a fruit basket or something.” Shitty pauses in his thoughtful moustache stroking to take in Jack’s poleaxed expression.

He remembers Eric’s voice saying _It’s the only thing I can draw_ , the words rounded smooth by his thick Georgian drawl.

Oh.

“Are you okay bro?” Shitty peers down at Jack in concern.

“He’s not a wedding crasher,” Jack says fumbling around for his wallet and his keys, and--oh, maybe he should put on real pants. His brain is scattered in a bunch of different directions at once, and his body is screaming _go go go_ , that Jack needs to find Eric _right now_. “He made the cake.”

 

* * *

 

Traffic is a nightmare.

Jack reaches the bakery right before closing. It’s a pale, delicate looking building with an impressive number of dying plants outside. The huge bay windows hold and array of gorgeous, if precarious looking cakes, covered in flower blossoms and clusters of fake fruit. Jack can see what he hopes is Eric’s silhouette inside, bustling around stacking up chairs and closing the shop for the night.   

The door is locked even though the neon sign tucked into the bottom of the window says they’re open. There’s a faint sound of Beyonce spilling out into the nighttime air that Jack recognizes from game days when Hartsy controls the stereo.

Before he can bring himself to tap on the glass Eric spots him from across the shop. He says something Jack can’t hear from outside, but Jack can see perfectly the shocked, happy smile that takes over his face and the way his fingers fumble for the keys to unlock the door.

“Hi.” Jack gives him a small, awkward wave.  

Eric laughs. “Oh thank god, do you know how many hockey playing Jack’s there are on the internet? You didn’t even say which team you were on.”

“Usually I play for the Falconers, out in Providence, but,” Jack gestures to the cast on his wrist.

“Is that your way of saying you’d be free to take me out to dinner on Friday?” Eric’s tone is teasing, but his ears are spectacularly red. He fiddles with the strings on his apron, and the realization the Eric is as pleased and nervous about whatever is blooming between them as Jack is gives Jack the burst of courage he needs.  

“Would you like to go out to dinner on Friday?”

“I would like that very much,” Eric says, and when he kisses Jack it’s every bit as sweet as he remembers.

 

**Author's Note:**

> O, to take what we love inside,  
> To carry within us an orchard, to eat  
> Not only the skin but the shade,  
> Not only the sugar, but the days, to hold  
> The fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into  
> The round jubilance of peach. 
> 
> Li-Young Lee, “From Blossoms”


End file.
